thecapitol | District 13 Escape

Howard's beyond happy to get rid of Sherlock; they each have their own people to locate. Howard's got a list of four written on the inside of his arm, a fifth name invisibly attached to Wyatt's like a phantom limb.

Dressed in clothing far too plain for a Capitol citizen, he runs with speed that suggests he hasn't been putting all that time to waste.

Something's changed about him. There's a fierce determination that didn't exist in him before, a seriousness that's borne not of desperation but purpose. He seems to have aged, not in the wizened, traumatized way of before, but in a manner that suggests he's no longer a boy but a young man.

A lot can change in a few weeks.

He runs to the Speakeasy first. He knows the Tribute Center will be too crowded, hopes that Wyatt will try to look for him rather than just tear through the city. Knows that he might follow Max as the gladiator embroiders blood into the fabric of this nation.

Edited 2014-09-21 01:45 (UTC)

The lights were gone, and the ghosts were out.

Sherlock Holmes strode down the pitch black streets of the Capitol as if he owned them - as if he wasn't technically dead. It was glorious, to walk through the Capitol, even if he knew the victory would be incredibly short lived. Just enough time for a rescue.

He didn't bother going to the Tribute Center. She wouldn't be there. He knew enough about her - about John - to know a Watson wouldn't dream of standing aside as the city fell in chaos. It would be out here, that he would find her. It would be out here, that he would hunt.

He just had to follow the trail of mended wounds.

Joan didn't care who the injured were. When she came upon a wounded person as she made her way through the streets, smashing any cameras she could reach, she didn't pass them by. Tribute, citizen, peacekeeper, she didn't care. She had known good and bad of all three, and there were enough people out in the dark doling out indiscriminate pain. She wouldn't balance out the violence of that night, but that didn't mean she shouldn't try.

She's unaware of the ghost that approached in the dark as she crouched next to a peacekeeper, his white suit stained red from a large scalp wound. He should have gotten stitches. He should have been under observation for a concussion. But all Joan could do was stop the bleeding, tape up the wound as best she could, and tell the man to get off the streets and go to the nearest hospital once the lights came back on. The man stood and staggered off, and Joan straightened, watching him go.

"Sometimes it is the differences that strike me the most," Sherlock said from behind her, having slipped towards them in the shadows, and waited until the peacekeeper staggered off. "It is the army half that doesn't seem to apply, to you. Perhaps it is the only the doctor part that matters, in the end."

He stepped into a small sliver of light that the moon offered, hands in his pockets. His hair was even more unkempt than usual - longer than she'd seen it last. He hadn't bothered to get it cut since he had 'died'. It was a marker, to himself, how long this particular body had been alive. An age that mattered, when the one in his head did not. He had kept himself clean shaven, at least, but his clothes were obviously kept and mended by himself, and he'd never really been interested in learning to do that before he was forced to. (He wasn't particularly interested now.) Supplies from 13 were infrequent enough and he never remember to order things he didn't see as essential.

"I've come to make do on my promise."

Joan whirled as she heard the voice from behind her, certain for a fraction of a second that someone had snuck up to do her harm. And then she recognized the voice, the figure, and sucked in a quick breath of surprise and aching joy.

"Sherlock."

She went to him, examined his face in the bare moonlight, as if to prove to herself that it was actually him. It was, undeniably. She could feel her heart racing, even if she kept her emotion (mostly) reined in, a small tightness in her voice the only giveaway.

"Was this you? The people you're working with? Was it you guys who planned this?"

"This? No. This was not my doing. Eva is her own loose cannon." He tilted his head, eyes quickly scanning her, assuring himself that she was unhurt before reaching out to grab her sleeve at the shoulder and start pulling her down the street.

"However, I am not one to waste an opportunity."

She pulled her sleeve out of his grasp, but didn't stop walking. She could follow him just fine. She didn't need him to pull her.

"So you're coming to take me to 13." She thought of her room, wondering if she should go back for...what? Clothes? Nothing in this place was hers. Nothing but her friends.

So many of which had been lost.

He let go without argument, but didn't slow his pace, expecting Joan to keep up. "In a manner of sorts."

Whether or not they actually ended up in thirteen was up for debate - but he wasn't about to open the subject here, even with the cameras disabled and the city in darkness.

He was essentially a Spy, now, whether he liked it or not, and he learned quickly.

"Speak now, if there's absolutely anything you require."

She kept up easily, having had a lot of experience keeping up with intensely determined men. She considered his statement for a moment, double checking her first instinct and coming up with the same answer.

"Nothing here is mine."

She took her device out of her pocket, held it out.

"I'd guess these are tracked?"

He nodded. "Keep it, for now. It can be recovered, and we have a good window where they won't grab it. We won't let them follow you back. My guess it that they won't even be able to take full stock of who is missing for a good twenty for hours."

He paused, though, turning to her, already fairly sure he knew the answer but wanting to hear it from a friend's lips. "... Molly? Punchy?"

She turned to him, and was unable to do any more than shrug. "Punchy's still in the arena, I think. I haven't been watching. I only just got back myself. I don't know what's happened to Molly."

She frowned and leaned a little closer as something occurred to her. "...you didn't ask about John. Which means you must know. Is he with you?"

All Joan knew was that he disappeared in the chaos that hit the Capitol after Penny was assassinated.

He tried not to look disappointed, but failed.

"He's safe," He said, before turning and resuming his stride. "But he isn't with me, no. He's gone on to where he is needed." He tried not to sound bitter, but he failed there too.

"He is safe," He said again, as if reassuring himself, "That's what's important."

"Mmm."

She fell in step with him as they resumed down the street. It made sense, that John, with his military experience and medical talents, might be needed elsewhere in the resistance. And it made sense, that Sherlock would be unhappy about that.

She could tell that Sherlock was reassuring himself, but he was absolutely right. John was safe, which was miles better than Joan had feared. That's what's important.

There was a sound from down the street, and Joan stopped for a moment, tilted her head...then started running. Someone was in trouble. She had to at least see if she could help.

"Joan-- Joan!" He snapped at her back, and then cursed. He grabbed the scarf from his pocket and quickly tied it around his face - he may feel free to roam the streets but having a one-on-one encounter with anyone - tribute or capitolite - was absolutely out of the question.

Dead men didn't chit chat.

Once secured, he took off in a run after her.

She stopped at the corner of an alleyway, listened for a moment. From the sounds, she would guess five or six assailants. Blunt weapons. One victim. Whose cries were getting weaker.

She looked back at Sherlock, saw him running to her with his face covered.

"They're beating someone to death."

Joan knew she couldn't do anything. They would just go from beating whoever that was to beating her. She bit her lip in consternation.

"Leave it," He said firmly, with absolutely no sympathy in his voice.

"Risking your life on the off chance that you might be able to do something for them-- We don't have time."

"You're right. Come on."

She started walking away when a young man emerged from the alley, a bat in his hands. He saw them, the corner of his mouth pulling back in a sneer.

"Hey!" he shouted back to his friends. "We've got some witnesses!"

Joan heard the others in the alley come running. She swore, threw a look at Sherlock, and started running.

Edited 2014-09-22 04:58 (UTC)

District 13 Escape

[Howard, Wyatt and Max]

[Sherlock and Joan]

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